


where the water goes to die

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Divorce, Reality Bending, Small Towns, Supernatural Elements, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: AU. In all his years of living in the seaside town, two things have always been made clear--do not walk alone at night, and do not visit the house on the water.





	1. cry wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little project I'm working on that I'm very excited to share! 
> 
> I recently watched Ethan play "Where the Water Tastes Like Wine" and something about the poetic nature and surrealism to the game struck me as inspiring. This is the result of that. The title of the fic is a bit of a nod towards that game, if that wasn't obvious. 
> 
> I've been heavily inspired since the beginning of the year to develop my Dark a whole lot, and I started that process by writing my fic "show me where it hurts (and i will make it worse)" and it went beautifully. To further this process, I wanted to write something very surreal and strange that bent the laws of reality, all while maintaining a level of...intrigue, if you will. I really like how Dark's character came out in this, and am very excited to move forward with him into the next chapter. 
> 
> Big ol' shout out to my good friend Ryo (PoemIsDead) for coming up with the nickname "little lamb." She used it in a fic once and I absolutely latched onto it, because it was both charming and eerie, which definitely suited this fic. 
> 
> That said, I had an amazing time crafting this piece, and I really hope you guys enjoy it, too! Please let me know what you think as I'm ever eager to hear from you guys! ♡♡
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning and a bit of a theme for this fic is "Skulls" by Bastille.

| _"I came here for sanctuary, away from the winds and the sounds of the city. I came here to get some peace, **way down deep where the shadows are heavy**..."_ |

~~

In all his years of living in the seaside town, two things have always been made clear--do not walk alone at night, and do not visit the house on the water.

Jack, having four older siblings, has had this rule beaten into him before he was even fully cognizant. His parents were always raving about it, and from his earliest memory of being an explorer, Malcolm had always been with him, determined to never leave him alone after the sun had fallen below the horizon. Jack could never sneak out on his own--at least one relative always caught him, always gave him a firm tongue lashing and maybe a slap (just the once) before being sent back to bed. 

He never really knew why it was a rule--why is anything ever a rule? People always whispered about secrets lurking beneath the shadows, and Jack supposes in seaside towns, all there ever is to talk about is gossip. The farmer’s wife would always tell Jack that a monster, hungry and evil, watched them day and night, determined to pick one of them up for eating, although Jack never put much stock in that. Everyone knows that monsters don’t exist, and the ones that do aren’t the ones that eat human flesh. 

Jack is eighteen when he manages to break the rule for the first time. He takes careful pains to make sure that no one will catch him, he stockpiles and memorizes the steps it takes to get to the shore, tallying up each second so that he’ll be back home and in bed before the siblings do their watch to make sure all of the children are in place. With only his socks on his feet, Jack slips out of the house and into the cover of the night, Malcolm’s oversized jacket pulled over his smaller frame. 

There’s something so much different about the town at night, he realized then. The shadows didn’t look like shadows--they appeared like demons, towering and crawling amongst the trees, like a black fire licking and consuming everything. The air is heavier, bearing down on his shoulders with an immeasurable weight, and soon, Jack understands why no one goes out at night on their own. Whatever is out there is waiting, and watching. 

But there’s no going back. He’s already wasted fifteen seconds, and if he wants to be back on time, he’ll have to go run. Picking up the pace, Jack follows the beat up cobblestone path, ignoring the breathing he swears he hears and feels behind him. The only thing that keeps him from screaming is the safety that Malcolm’s jacket provides him. 

Soon, his feet brush sand, and he’s at the end of the path. The ebb and flow of the waves almost beckon him, singing a song that only he can hear, and he supposes in a way he should be afraid of that. Only a sliver of the moon appears to him, a winking eye that sees his transgressions, counts his steps and knows what he’ll get into tonight, and makes no effort to stop him. 

Jack should go back, but he doesn’t. 

His first step onto the sand sinks in, filling the tiny pores in his socks. He ignores the grittiness between his toes and takes in the sensation, the way it seems to hug each toe, almost like a comfort. Jack grips the sleeve of Mally’s jacket, as though anchoring himself, reminding himself that he’s got a piece of home, and surely whatever lurks behind him won’t take him if he’s got a piece of home with him, right? It’s a childish wish at best, but it’s all he’s got, and he intends to use it, to fake it until he makes it, to will the monsters away from him. 

No such luck. The breathing behind him returns--warm, hungry, expecting. 

A shiver courses through his spine. 

Jack reaches the shoreline, the cold water whipping in and out. The tide is low, but the waves feel stronger, like they’re reaching for him. Whatever is watching him has not seen a new face for a long time, and It hopes, It desires for company. He almost finds this frightening, to be wanted so. 

He’s fully ready to step into the water, to do the most horrible thing of soaking his socks, but without prompting, without warning, he sees a glimmer along the top. Like a bridge of stars, it glistens in the light, a welcome invitation, honey to a fly. Jack figures he’s made it this far, and taking a step of faith, he steps onto the bridge. 

No waver. He expels a low, soft breath, and with his chin held high, walks across and towards the looming house, with no lights on. 

_Come in_ , the wind whispers, tickling his hair, kissing his neck as he approaches the house. The door opens with a haunting creek. _Come in, little lamb. Come in._

Jack flips his wrist to check his watch. He’s got twenty minutes before he’ll get caught. Still, however, he hesitates at the door, but the wind--or the shadows--give him a gentle push, and it’s all the incentive that he needs to finally step over the threshold. 

The door slams behind him. Pitch darkness greets him, swirling around his limbs, and he feels very naked, then. The darkness roams its fingers along his skin, getting a feel for him, learning every inch of him before it does what it wills. Jack stays still, fearful that it will choke the life out of him if he breathes wrong. 

And then, the same familiar starlight glistens in the room, constellations appearing on the ceiling. Soft music rolls into the room, a record player, far away, perhaps two rooms over. The room glimmers in a soft, yellow glow, and Jack can see a soft house, full of books and furniture, charts on the walls and a spiral staircase to the left of him. The windows produce a rose-colored tint, and it’s all...shockingly normal, if not haunting in some way. 

“Hello?” Jack whispers, afraid to break the fragile calm, but finding the ingrained fear that if he doesn’t use his voice now, he’ll never be able to use it again. There’s no reason for him to believe so, yet he finds himself fearful of it anyway. “Is anyone here?”

_Not anyone_ , the wind whispers, a soft, teasing lilt. _Just me, little lamb._

The breeze feels like hands on his shoulders, holding him firm. The sound of the record player grows a tune louder, more audible in the dimness. 

Fifteen minutes. 

“Who are you?” Jack asks, and with as much energy as he can muster, turns his head, craning his neck over his shoulder. No one stands there, and it isn’t surprising. “What’s your name?”

_What would you like to call me?_

The wind--the shadows--brush along his cheek, a lukewarm gesture. Jack swallows thickly, his eyes searching for something that doesn’t exist, not in this realm. He licks his lips, rumbling out, “What your name is.”

A chuckle. _Cute. You are endearing, little lamb._

“My name is Jack,” he says, against any good judgment, any good mentality.

_I know._

Of course it does. 

“What are you?” Jack scans the room, looking for the vague semblance of a figure. The record player grows louder. 

A softer, more methodical hum. _I am the darkness. The devil. The moon. The king._

“All at once?” Jack breathes, more of a joke to himself. “All at the same time?”

_If you wish it_ , no lips, yet Jack can hear a smile. _Are you frightened?_

At his back, Jack feels a looming presence, hanging over him. The shadows grip him again, smoothing over his skin, reaching up to cover his eyes. The room dims, and with a soft breath, the starlight flickers out like a candle, and the record player rumbles to life, louder and louder still. 

Words swirl around his mind, a cacophony of syllables and dialects. He needs something simplistic, something warm and cold all at once. He needs a name that means so much more than it sounds, than it is, and he thinks he knows it before his mouth ever opens. 

“I want to call you Dark,” Jack tells It, a whisper, a promise. The word stings on his tongue, like a nick to the skin. 

The shadows recede from his vision. The starlight illuminates the room again, softer, the record player’s droll a pitch lower. Jack doesn’t dare look behind him as strong, very human hands grip his shoulders, and a hot voice ghosts over the shell of his ear. 

“Then it is so,” It tells him. There’s hunger in the words, breath washing over his neck, and It is so close. “My name shall be Dark.” 

Thirteen minutes. 

This is such a bad idea. 

He shivers under the touch, but refuses to roll, to jostle out of its--his--grip. The thing has taken a man’s form--that’s evident from his voice, from the roughness of his hands, from his height, his looming presence. He’s almost frightened of doing so. 

“Tell me,” Dark whispers, low and threatening. His hands don’t leave him, pressing indentations into Malcolm’s jacket. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

“Is that a complaint?” Jack tries, all false bravado, hoping he comes off stronger than he feels. 

Dark’s taller than him--not a lot, but enough to be mildly concerning. He presses his nose to his hair, breathing him in, and in any other circumstance Jack would find this concerning, or even creepy, but it just feels standard. He’s afraid to turn, afraid to look at what he’s created, but he’s only delaying the inevitable. 

“No,” Dark mumbles, the record player in the distance accenting his words with a pop. “Just wondering what brought this gorgeous little lamb into my den.” 

He lets out a low, sobering breath. “Yeah?”

The devil blows on his ear, teasing him, his nails too sharp for that of a human’s. “Didn’t they teach you not to come out when night falls?” 

From his position, Jack’s eyes trail downwards to his watch. He doesn’t dare move his wrist, trying to read the numbers from an angle. He knows that the thing is watching, waiting for him to make the barest movement, and Jack isn’t sure if he’ll be consumed with that hungry gaze or murdered. Both are equally frightening.

But Dark seems to follow his eyes. With a ginger touch, he removes one of his vice-grips on Jack’s shoulder, taking all the time in the world to lift his wrist up. Jack eyes the clock with anticipation, fearful of what it will reveal--ten minutes past the hour, more than likely. His parents and siblings will know he’s gone, and really, he should have expected this. 

“What’s this?” he gets the first good look at Dark’s skin, an ashy hue, his nails dipped in black. His thumb brushes over the glass of the watch, but he realizes that it isn’t ticking. When did it stop? “So pretty. A gift, perhaps?” 

Denial bubbles in his chest, but the truth refuses to be contained. He opens his mouth, and the words feel like they’re pulled, ripped from his chest in a manner unlike anything. He cranes his head, unable to even wrench his hand away from Dark’s grip as he says, “Y-yes. It was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. My grandmother.” 

“Would you say it’s important to you?” a drawl, and Jack wonders if he’ll rip off his hand, to get it. It’s a possibility. Anything right now is possible, with time stopped and his heart racing like he’s going to drop on the floor any minute. 

“Relatively,” Jack murmurs, his skin itching with the burn of needing to get away, or the need to be closer. “Do you want it?” 

Dark hums, thoughtful and low. He seems enamored with the glass if nothing else. His skin is cold, but the heat Jack feels on his cheeks is unmistakable. 

“I’ve no interest in human baubles,” he says, after a long time. He lets go of his wrist, and Jack lets it flop back down to his side. Dark smoothes his hands along the expanse of his arms, stopping at the elbows to anchor himself there. He nestles his head on his shoulder, and Jack keeps his gaze transfixed on the ground, just in case. “They put such sentimentality in things that are ephemeral.” 

“Am I not ephemeral?” the word tastes awkward in his mouth. Jack tries to ignore the lingering sweetness at the back of his throat. “Is it not proper for an ephemeral being to place value in ephemeral materials?” 

Dark lets out a laugh, not so much in humor as amused. “I don’t think, little lamb, that you are by any means ephemeral.” 

Jack shudders. “Yeah? Then what am I?” 

The devil clicks his tongue. Jack thinks of how easy it would be for Dark to snap his arms backwards, and the record player in the distance only serves to put him more on edge. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, but what feels like a long moment could have been ten seconds, because time isn’t working here, and that makes no sense. 

“I don’t know,” Dark says, finally. His thumb moves in circles over the joint of his elbow. “Foolish. Daring. Skittish. Curious.” 

The last word causes him to recoil, slightly. Dark seems pleased with the response. He’s enjoying the way he sets Jack on edge. He loves the way that Jack refuses to squirm under his touch, but refuses to move away out of a mute fear. He knows Jack’s scared and he’s milking every last bit of it. 

“Are you frightened?” Dark asks him again, like he doesn’t know the answer. 

Jack breathes out, determined to not let him win, to not spin him up this way. “No.” 

“I believe you,” the devil says, with absolutely no uncertainty. But Jack knows better, knows that there’s no reason for the thing to believe him or his words, not when it can read him as well as it has thus far. 

Dark knows something that he hasn’t let on, knows more than he ever will let on. He knows something about Jack that unsettles him, perhaps something that even Jack doesn’t know about himself. 

“Won’t you face me?” Dark breaches the long pause with the question, sickly and wrapped in honey. The words feel good against his ears, even if he doesn’t want them to. 

“Will you kill me?” Jack fires back, and the confidence he feels actually feels real. But despite his hesitation, his body already tilts, like a puppet on strings waiting to be jostled about. 

Without warning, the hands move from his arms, and the thing backs away slowly, giving him the space to turn around. Jack steels himself for something awful turning to face the creature of his nightmares. 

Ashen skin. Black hair. A finely pressed suit. Red eyes. 

He’s taken such a gorgeous form. Maybe Jack has imagined him this way, has brought this physique before him to life with sheer power of imagination alone. He’s tall and imposing, brooking no room for argument against him at all. His body is a landscape of lean muscle and sharp edges and Jack has known since he was sixteen that he was a little into guys, but Dark is something else. 

“Never,” Dark murmurs, a soft response to his earlier question that Jack had forgotten he’d asked. His eyes linger over his stature, drinking Jack in, and there’s nothing in those eyes that doesn’t scream with a desire to take him. 

Jack swallows harshly. Straightening his shoulders, he can’t be as tall as him, can’t look as intimidating, but goddamn, he’s going to try. Dark steps forward, lifting his chin with his fingers, and his red eyes bore into his blue ones. He holds his gaze as Jack mumbles out, “Should I trust you?”

He knows what happens next. Jack doesn’t move his head away, Dark’s mouth curving upward, revealing a grin of sharp teeth and bad intentions. It’s the first real expression he’s seen from him, and it’s not good. Jack has released the beast after so many years, centuries perhaps, and he’s very, _very_ hungry.

“Never,” Dark whispers, like a promise and a threat wrapped in one. 

And then Dark kisses him, a soft brush of lips and skin, so much gentler than he’d anticipated. It’s chaste at worst, like the kisses he’d had in the fields when all of his friends were doing it. Nothing behind it, nothing but the pure act of doing it, and Jack’s shoulders involuntarily relax. 

_Let me in._

The wind whispers at him. Dark pulls away, his eyes hooded, watching him with mute interest. Jack finds himself leaning forward, following him, just a fraction, before catching himself. Dark seems to know nonetheless. 

A snap rings out in the room, Dark’s fingers the source. Around them, the starlight glows brighter, the gentle breeze in the room falling to a hush, and Jack hadn’t realized the ambient sound of it. The record player plays in earnest, a soothing tune, a different melody from before. 

Dark holds out a hand, a gleam in his wicked gaze. “Shall we dance?” 

He’s got zero clue how to dance. But this seems to mean nothing to Dark, his hand expectant, and Jack only feels the necessity to oblige. Dark’s hands are softer than he expects, but not without their callouses, the roughness pressing against him. Gripping him tight, Dark pulls him forward, placing a gentle hand at his hip. 

Reaching up, he places a hand at Dark’s shoulder, vaguely recalling this is how dances are supposed to go. He gazes up at Dark’s red eyes, ruby adornments locked into a nearly human skull. They don’t look real, almost, his lips upturned into a smirk that screams of bad intentions, but Jack can’t find it in himself to care as Dark begins to sway them, commanding, “Just follow my steps.”

And so he does. Jack stumbles a couple of times, nearly tripping over his feet to keep in time with the devil’s quick pace. But the activity is relaxing, and for every time he falls, Dark catches him, and they begin again. After a few moments of stepping--one, two, three--Dark dips him back and Jack actually yelps.

“Relax,” Dark soothes, his face close, and Jack can feel his heart pounding as Dark keeps him there. “I won’t drop you.” 

Strong hands pull him back up, and Jack feels a rush of air return to his lungs, shaking off the fear as Dark leads him into a twirl. He feels a little embarrassed, dancing like this with a stranger, but it’s...exciting, almost. As he comes out of the twirl, Dark pulls him in close, his chest flush with Jack’s back. A warmth settles there, and Dark makes no effort to pull away. 

“Yes,” Dark’s voice resonates in his ear. “What _are_ you, little lamb? Fearless. Fearful. Naive. Wise. Stunning, absolutely. A paradox of symphonies. How I would love to know them all.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Jack mumbles, and the deep laugh, the rumble against his back--it’s exhilarating. 

“Time,” Dark says, the arm wrapped around him squeezing just a little harder. Jack doesn’t dare to squirm away. He isn’t sure he wants to. “I’ve all the time in the world, and yet you...you have so little.” 

His watch stopped ticking long ago. Jack licks his lips. “I thought I wasn’t going home tonight.”

It’s a fair thought. Jack was sure that the moment he’d given the wind a name, he’d been doomed. That this had been why people were warned to never go out, because they never came back. He had been sure walking into this house that Dark intended to kill him, and somehow, he’d accepted that. 

“No,” Dark finally releases him. Jack moves out of the warmth of his arms to turn around, to face him. In the starlight, he almost appears as a god, a deity. He wants to look away for fear of hurting his eyes, but Dark’s presence brooks no room for such silly thoughts. “I am...patient. There will be time. But a piece of you will remain with me, so that when that time comes...I may retrieve you.” 

A threat showcased in flowers. Jack shifts on his feet, wondering what Dark will take from him. His eyes, his skin, a finger? Something non-material, perhaps a memory, or a feeling? He gnaws on his lower lip, trying to curb the anxiety as he says, “What will I give you?”

Dark lets out a breathy laugh, and he straightens his shoulders. He places his hands behind his back, accentuating the loom of his figure. With slow, measured steps, he begins to circle Jack, and he feels suddenly like a piece of meat on display. A prize hanging on a rack, and Dark has every intention of being the winner, no matter the cost. His shoes, polished and clean, click on the drab flooring, and every step is another heartbeat. 

Then, “The watch.” 

Jack’s hand immediately grips the watch. “My watch? You said...you didn’t want it.”

“I don’t,” Dark smoothes down the front of his suit, resituating his tie. “But you do. It’s important to you, yes?” 

With a small, hesitant nod from Jack, he continues, “In order to ensure that I may find you again, I need something of...value. Something you hold in esteem. Something that you put a large sentimental relevance into.”

Using his hand, he gestures to Jack’s person. “I require no blood, no fluid, no sacrifice of limb from you. I’ll not put a mark on you, at least, not ones that you don’t want,” a devilish smile, “all that I ask is that I receive something from you so that when the time comes...I can give you what you want.” 

And it’d be so fucking stupid to listen to this. Whatever Dark is--it isn’t _good_ , reeks of nothing but the intent on using him for whatever sick gain he desires. It’s so fucking stupid to even sit here, considering taking off his grandmother’s watch, putting it into those grey hands, as though this is a promise he can’t back out of. 

_You can say no_ , the wind whistles.

Maybe he doesn’t want to. 

Jack’s nails dig into the buckle of the watch, unclasping it with ease. Dark’s eyes don’t leave him, pinning him there with a saccharine smile as he holds out his hand, palm up. Jack feels like he’s moving through molasses, his movements janky and uncertain, but eventually he reaches him. He place the silver watch into Dark’s outstretched fingers. 

When their fingers touch, Dark takes the watch, moving his thumb upward to grip his hand. In a swift, elegant gesture, he leans forward and brushes his lips over the knuckles, leaving a longer, lingering kiss on the top. He pulls away, in his hands the timepiece, and he tucks it into his suit jacket. 

Dark smoothes the wrinkles out again, the curve of his fingers enthralling as he does so. Jack swallows, unable to prevent the shaking that teeters at the edge of him. 

“And now?” Jack asks, his voice surprisingly hoarse, like he’s been screaming, but he’s not done a damn thing.

“And now,” Dark whispers, and his teeth, sharp like a wolf’s, glimmer in the light. “Now you go back to sleep.”

He snaps his fingers and the starlight fades. The floor falls beneath him, and Jack hits the water with a cold plunge. 

~~

“...ean? Sean! Oh, god, fuck, Allison! Here he is! Oh, fuck!” 

The sand grinds into his cheek as he slowly blinks his eyes open. Jack hardly has time to adjust before he’s being jostled up, squinting in the light. 

After a moment, Malcolm’s face comes into view. He looks panicked, glasses nearly slipping off his nose. He’s never seen his brother look this out of breath, or frightened. “Sean? Sean, fuck, are you okay? Talk to me, please, little brother…”

“Mally?” his voice feels like sandpaper, rough and awkward. Did he swallow some, by accident? A chill settles into him, realizing that he’s soaked from head to toe.“Where...am I?” 

Then, softer hands comb the hair from his face, Allison’s bright hair coming into view. “You’re on the beach, on the shoreline. Oh, Sean, thank god you’re alright, Ma and Dad...we thought...oh god, we thought the worst…”

Malcolm holds him tight, his rough hands pawing across him, as though trying to convince himself that he’s real. “Fuck, fuck, Jack, what were you doing out here? Did you sneak out after dark? You know, you _know_ you can’t do that. You could’ve been killed!” 

Jack vaguely wonders how angry Ma and Dad will be after he arrives home. He wonders how long they’ll put him under arrest for. What will the village think of him now? Will they think him to be tainted, cursed, now that he’s been through the night and survived?

His sister’s tears hits his skin, wrenching him back from his thoughts. He’s seen Allison cry only a handful of times, but never over him. “We thought we lost you, Jack. You weren’t in bed when we woke up...I don’t know what I would’ve done if we…”

She presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Jack wiggles out of Malcolm’s grip, moving to sit up on his own. He uses his hands to brush some of the sand off his pants, ignoring the way that some of the grains still stick to the wet material. “I’m okay. I’m...okay. I’m sorry, I...I don’t know what came over me. I just...wanted to see what was out here. Just once.”

“Fuckin’ stupid, is what that thought is,” Malcolm grumbles, but then puts a hand on his shoulder, hands gripping the fabric of his own jacket. If he’s bothered by Jack wearing it, he doesn’t show it. “Did you get hurt? Did you...see something?” 

Cold fingers. Ashen skin. 

Does Mally know what lurks beyond the safety of their home?

“I don’t think so,” Jack rumbles out, rubbing at his eyes. He brushes out some of the excess sand in his hair, realizing for the first time that his wrist feels naked. “I remember...going out. I remember the trees, the water. Lights. Then...I think I fell.”

“Do you know what happened to you?” Allison asks, her eyes moving to lock with his. She’s searching, and Jack sees fear in her gaze, and he can’t tell if she’s afraid of him or what now may be interested in him. “Do you remember...anything, Sean?” 

The crash of the waves against the rocks do little to calm him, but Jack finds them comforting nonetheless. Out of everything that he’s seen, the waves are certain. He breaks away from Allison’s gaze to look over at the house, decrepit as last night, but lacking a certain charm in the daylight. 

He rubs at the blank space where his watch should be. He trembles at its absence.

Red eyes. Black nails. Ebony hair. A smile so frightening, it stops hearts.

With a soft, sobering breath, he shakes his head, mumbling, “I don’t remember anything at all.”


	2. come running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That boy belongs to the devil now_ , he’d heard the preacher say. _We’d all do well to be wary of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start off by saying I'm so sorry this took me so long to get out.
> 
> It's actually been done for a while, but in May I started a summer job that ran me all the way to August, and as of this week I've started college again. In that time, you'll notice that I've pushed it up from 2 parts into 3. This is because I struggled with how I wanted the smut to go down for so long that I eventually scrapped the original idea (it was a lot...more bdsm than i wanted it to be? lmao). I wanted it to be only two parts but what I wanted didn't flow with what I already had, and I really like what I had already, so. This works out to be building onto the base and going from there. I'm bumping the rating down to M for now because there will definitely still be some sexy stuff but I don't think quite to the extreme I was anticipating.
> 
> That said, I went ahead and split this part (which was already super long) from the last part (which is coming, I promise) but I wanted to get this up because I know it's been about 8000000 years and I've missed this fic so much. It was an awesome project and I'm so eager to come back to it.
> 
> So that's enough of my rambling. Hopefully the update is good! More fun activities in the last part :)
> 
>  **[EDIT]:** HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN. Huge shout-out to my friend Adam for literally sitting with me and listening to me ramble about this fic for hours. He honestly helped me hash out a LOT of the details for this whole project and let me plan the last bit while offering some solid pointers. He also acted as my beta for this chapter in particular for things that sounded off and weird. Dude's an amazingly good friend and I appreciate all that he does :')

The bottom of the glass greets him. 

Jack swirls the cup with squinted eyes, watching the light flicker within. The amber droplets at the bottom collect into one last little swallow, barely enough to wet his throat, but it’ll have to do. He can’t let a single drop of this go to waste, can’t afford to, and besides--the less he remembers, the better. 

He stares at the empty walls of his home, the kitchen’s light dim, a dull flicker. It lacks any color, a mute absence that does little to soothe the anxiety of a fly, let alone him. He roams his hands along the drab tablecloth, viciously wanting to throw it away, but he’s too tired to care right now. Vaguely, he wonders if he could fall asleep like this, at his small table made for two. 

No. Probably not. He’s long grown used to another body next to him as he sleeps. Sleeping without it now feels too much like betrayal, even if that’s exactly what happened. 

Ridiculous.

Jack rocks in his chair, his legs bouncing, restless with energy he can’t contain. His hand clammy, he rubs his finger over the rim of the glass in his hand, glancing over at the vacancy across from him. There should be another person, but instead there’s silence and bitterness and Jack is so overwhelmingly angry about it. Gripping the glass tight, he hurls it across the room, slamming into the wall with a resounding shatter. 

He sniffles. Wiping at his eyes, he buries his face into his hands, sucking in a sobering breath, but it does no good. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking comfort in the darkness, pretending for one moment that he’s fine, pretending for a moment that things will get better, even though he knows they won’t. The whiskey from his glass burns in his stomach, a wildfire ready to consume the entirety of him, and he’s ready to let it. 

Raising his hand up, he looks at the gold band glimmering back at him. 

He sees her face. His lips contort into a scowl. 

Ripping the ring off his finger, he tosses it against the wall with the broken glass, and lets out a frustrated scream. He hears it clatter among the glass with a ting, and he’s eternally bitter that he’s going to have to clean that up tomorrow, bloody fingers and fat, crocodile tears galore. 

“Fuck you!” he hisses, a cry to someone who won’t hear him, who doesn’t want to hear him, who doesn’t want to hear him ever again. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Why wasn’t I good enough?” 

Perhaps it’s the alcohol in him that’s giving him the anxiety, the anger. It doesn’t matter. 

He’s twenty-eight goddamn years, five months, eleven days, and forty-three seconds old, and he had settled down with the perfect girl at twenty-five and some odd hours, and after three years and two months of marriage, she goes and cheats on him. 

Now he’s divorced with nothing but alcohol and a bad attitude to show for it. 

After he wallows in his self-pity for approximately eight more minutes, Jack peels himself off the chair and towards his bed. He’s still wearing today’s clothes, not having bothered to change out. He probably still smells gross as fuck, now only slightly masked with alcohol, but he really, really doesn’t care. It’s not like he has anyone to impress, these days.

Jack wraps the sheets tight around himself, burying his face into the pillow, hoping that maybe for a moment he can drown out the depression he knows will rise in the morning. He’s hoping that maybe he can suffocate his problems in the feathers, pretending for an infinitesimal second that he’s better than this, better than a man who does nothing but drinks his nights away because he’s lonely and heartbroken over everything. 

The night is young, still, but that doesn’t matter as he closes his eyes, and lets sweet oblivion claim him. 

~~

The morning comes too fast, roughly two and a half hours before he would’ve liked, a reminder that every waking moment of his existence from this moment will be spent alone. Jack rolls out of bed and cleans himself off in the bathroom, throwing on the day before yesterday’s pants, a relatively clean shirt, and a jacket he picked up from a thrift store some odd years back. It’s ugly as all hell, got holes in the pockets, but it’s warm and that’s really what he needs in his life right now. 

Combing his fingers through his scraggly hair, he knows he needs a haircut at some point. The floof on the top is becoming a bit of a monster, a curled mess of strands, but he figures he can deal with that later. The scruff on his face is mildly unkempt, but his ex had told him she liked him clean shaven, so out of spite, he’s growing it out. He’s got nothing better to do with his time. 

When he rolls into work, his friend, Felix, tells him that he looks like shit, but it doesn’t matter because he’s not the headline for today. Jack rolls his eyes and tells him to bite him, to which Felix politely asks if that’s a promise. He’s always been a cheeky sonofabitch anyway. Jack enters his cubicle and sets his nose to work, the smell of ink and paper unmistakable in the facility. 

None of it really matters, though. The monotony of it haunts him, but if he doesn’t have his work he’s got literally nothing else. He counts the hours and seconds that it takes to complete each task, finding it’s the only thing he can use his brain to focus on. Felix asks if the divorce has been finalized, having kept up with the process thus far, and Jack confirms that the papers went through a couple days ago, and he’s officially “on the market” again. It would have been longer had they had kids, but as Jack nor his ex had the time for that, the divorce had been relatively smoothe. 

“Better to find out now than ten years from now,” Felix says, like that’s any help. 

He would have rather gone the rest of his life not knowing his wife had been a cheater than deal with the lingering ache of her betrayal, when he was supposed to spend his life with her. How much better things would have been never knowing, rather than this pain of it being ripped away.

At approximately 6:03 PM, Felix bumps his chair with his hip, indicating that he needs to get up and get out of the office, or at least get his face out of his desk. 

“Maybe you should visit home,” Felix tells him. “Like. Your folks don’t know yet, yeah? Tell ‘em. Spend a couple days in your childhood room. Might make it a little easier to swallow.”

Sounds like a dumb idea. 

“Yeah, that sounds like a great idea,” Jack murmurs. “What harm could it do?” 

“That’s the spirit,” Felix whistles. “Go on, get your ducks in a row. I’ll handle things here.” 

And so he does. Jack tells his boss that he’ll be taking a temporary leave, packs his bags, and prepares for the train ride home tomorrow. The night air is full of smog and smoke, and it reminds him of something that he can’t remember the name of. 

~~

The train is thirty-two minutes and twenty-seven seconds late on arrival, but the seaside town has never looked more beautiful.

He hadn’t realized the incredible homesickness he’d had for the seaside town. It’s been eight years since he’s been home. Once he’d turned twenty he couldn’t get out of the place fast enough, the stigma crowding his every waking thought and dream. 

Jack had taken to the big city, then, but now he’s back and isn’t sure what to make of it. He steps off the train and onto the platform, nearly suffocated by the musk of the seaside air, the dinginess of the well-used and worn out station. Yet, it’s comforting to him, being wrapped in a sensation that is at least somewhat familiar.

The trek home is a long walk, but no one could come to meet him, given that he’d told no one of his arrival or his intention to even come down. Carrying his bags over his shoulders and in his arms, he follows the familiar beaten path all the way to his parents’ house, wondering if they’ll be happy to see him. They’d been pretty upset when he’d left, being the last son of the family, and after...after the incident when he was eighteen, they’d always been particularly protective of him.

Being eighteen feels like more than just a decade ago, but paradoxically feels like yesterday. 

His wrist burns at the memory. He’s since gotten a new watch after losing Gran’s in the sea, taken by the current to some faraway place. No one has treated him the same since coming back that morning. 

Cursed. Tainted. Possessed. 

_That boy belongs to the devil now_ , he’d heard the preacher say. _We’d all do well to be wary of him._

Dusk is settling, the sun still burning on the horizon, but it will be night soon. As Jack’s feet find familiar cobblestone, following it all the way home, he had forgotten how heavy the shadows were here. 

Arriving home, he knocks three times on the door, and when the door swings open his parents look startled, like seeing a ghost for the first time. But it’s a tender reunion--his mother embraces him, his father smiles from a distance, and as the door shuts, Jack feels a chill up his spine. 

“Where’s your wife?” his father asks, and the moment the words leave his mouth, Jack’s ache returns. Something bitter and harsh bubbles across his tongue, settling into his saliva, and he presses his lips into a thin line. “Seán?”

Jack holds up his vacant hand. “Divorced.”

“Oh dear,” his mother murmurs. “What happened?”

He tells them the story of how three years had gone by without incident--or maybe it had been happening the whole time, and he’d been too stupid to notice. He tells them of how he’d come home late from working on projects with Felix, and his wife would always be sleeping when he arrived home. How everything felt normal for so long, blissfully ignorant, until one day it wasn’t. 

Robin had been the one to break the news. Jack hasn’t talked to him since, but it isn’t his fault, and Jack doesn’t blame him. In some ways, he wishes that Robin had never told him, but there’s no going back now. 

Jack hates that even though he doesn’t wear the ring on his finger anymore, he can’t bear to be without it. It always remains on a chain, hidden beneath the collar of his shirts, like some cursed talisman stalking him like a ghost.

He takes Felix’s advice and spends some time in his childhood room, just the way he’d left it. Everything of sentimental value he’d taken with him, to be placed into his boring home that serves as nothing but a bad memory, now. He drops his bags by the windows, running his hand over the familiar locks on it. They’d locked him in, after he’d gotten back. There were locks on his doors, too. They intended to keep him in. Or something out, Jack had never been sure. 

The wind whistles outside his windows, and as night falls, he hears the sound of the front door, locked three times. It seems some things never change, and Jack, however strange the ritual may be, is oddly comforted by this familiarity. 

That night, though Jack is exhausted, he can’t sleep. The wind howls outside, a haunting screech of whistles and snapping of tree branches. It’s as though something is alive out there, and it wants in, and Jack finds himself remarkably unconcerned with this situation. 

He counts the seconds on his watch (two, three, four) between each howl, and throughout the entire night, it doesn’t let up. Not once. 

Soon, the sun rises and the wind calms, and only then is Jack able to roll over and close his eyes. 

Jack spends the light of the day sleeping, and he’s surprised that his parents don’t bother him. Perhaps they believe him to be grieving, mourning the loss of something that’s supposed to be eternal, and there’s little comfort in the world that can ease this. It’s strange moments like these that he remembers his age, and that despite reuniting with an age old home, he’s still an adult and his parents hold little jurisdiction over what he does.

When the evening rolls around, he eats dinner with his parents, exchanging tales of what his brothers and sisters have been up to in his absence. Allison has gone off into the big city to make her fortune, Jack knows that well. Mally had disappeared into the countryside shortly after Jack’s departure. His oldest brother, Aidan, has been married for some time now, and Emma, his oldest sister, still lives in the town with her newborn son. Jack tells his tale of working with Felix, with Robin, meticulously documenting every hour. 

Jack asks about the locks still on his window. His parents seem uncomfortable with the question, and he hasn’t the energy to press it. 

As he retires to his room for the evening, his mother knocks, entering his room with a small, soft presence. This is unusual for a number of reasons, because his mother has always been proud, taking up an enormous space in the room. 

“Do you remember being eighteen?” she asks him, sitting down on his bed. “Do you remember the night you snuck out after dark?”

And how could he forget? How could he forget the night he counted every second from his departure, leaving his sneakers behind to be quieter. How could he forget the sand in his socks, the water on his skin, the heaviness of the shadows? The way the moon gazed upon him, expectant.

Red eyes. 

Had the moon been red that night?

Jack nods slowly, a vague, static filling his brain. “Why?”

“Do you remember what you saw?”

He remembers, then, the same question that Allison had asked him all those years ago, when they’d found him on the shore. Sand had dug into his palms, his cheeks, his hair. He’d sworn that it’d gotten down his throat, too, into his lungs. Allison had looked him in the eye, begged him, searching his face, asking if he remembered what had happened.

Cold. It had been so cold. 

A rushing current. A discordant melody. 

“I fell into the water,” he recites, knowing the words to be true. But they feel wrong, poisonous, like the words aren’t sensible, like they’re something that shouldn’t be said, shouldn’t be uttered. “I...I walked out to the house on the water. I think the current was strong, or...something. I got pulled under. It was...cold.”

His mother’s hand brushes his cheek. “What did you see, Jack? What was waiting for you?”

Nothing. Everything. 

Strong hands. Sharp smile. 

“A wolf,” Jack finally says, and there’s that bitterness again, almost right, but not quite. No, that can’t be right. There was nothing there but the wind and the trees.“I think it was a wolf. Before I...before I was pulled under.”

“What pulled you under?”

Nothing. Everything. 

_c̴̬̲͙̭̫Co҉̤̣͔̬ͅͅm͕͎̤͡e̺̺̖ ͉̳̪̣ͅi̢̘̭̞͇̭n̘̥̤̗̙̥̕ͅ,̟̺̰̲̺͠ ͔̗̫̙̪̻l̪i̯̟̰̭͇͓͖t̷t̴̙͉l̪̫̫̻͖̱ͅe͕̟̜͚ ̳̘̫͚̻͚la̡ͅm̷̼̖͇̲b̹͔̳̟̠̳̟..._

“I fell,” Jack whispers, shaking his head. Everything hurts, then, heart squeezing in his chest. He feels short of breath. A fog washes over his mind, murky and convoluted. Then it’s gone. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Ma.” 

She murmurs a soft acceptance, kisses him on the forehead, and leaves him.

The wind begins to howl as the door closes behind her, and Jack finds it almost whistles a melody, a harsh sound against the glass panes of the window. It’s like something is screaming at him, and all Jack wants to do is rip the lock off the window, and welcome it inside. 

It. 

There’s nothing out there. 

Is there?

Tonight, it’s worse. Last night had been a choir of sounds, but now it’s a symphony, louder and louder still. Jack swears he can hear the shadows scraping at the glass, clawing their way in, trying to reach him, to break through the stone walls, to snatch him from his bed. If he squints in the darkness, he can see the hands pressed against the glass, a warning, a request, a demand. 

_L̻̬̮̖͘e̲͉͎̞̩ͅt._  
Mę̳ͅ. ̝̺͝  
I̴̘n̯̦.

Jack closes his eyes, and dully, distantly, he hears the glass crack, and spiderweb out. 

But it doesn’t break. He can’t tell if he’s upset or relieved by this. 

The howling wind combines with the thumping of sticks against the rooftop, of leaves scratching against the side of the house. There’s no point in counting the seconds between gusts, because it never seems to stop, doesn’t seem to let up for a second. 

Hours pass, the sun rises, and when the wind comes to an end, only then does Jack manage to fall asleep. He wakes sometime around six PM, repeats the monotony of eating food with his parents, avoiding eye contact with his mother. He knows she wants to ask him more questions, fear laced in every word she utters, but he’s too tired to form lucid thoughts. 

When the doors lock and the wind picks up the third night, Jack decides he’s had enough. Something out there wants him, something out there demands his presence, and it’s not like he’s got anything to lose at this point. As he steps out of the house, the floorboards creaking under his weight, he feels eighteen again, closing the door gently behind him. 

He rubs at his arms, the chill breeze ripping into his exposed skin. No jacket to steal, no time to keep. His socks dig into the cobblestone as he meanders down the pathway, and he feels it, then, the shadows, gripping at his flesh. Not out of malice. Out of need. Out of necessity. It wants him, It needs him. It urges him forward. 

Despite the cold, he soldiers on, until his feet hit sand. How long it’s been since he’s had this sensation between his toes, the grains slipping through the material. Wind rippling around him, Jack stares at the house on the water, and he wonders how he’d ever forgotten what it looks like. Waves crashing against the shoreline, the ocean spray wrenches him from his memories, and Jack repeats to himself that he’s twenty eight, not eighteen. 

His feet sink into the sand as he approaches the shore, and despite the clear sky overhead, it’s like a storm is brewing. The waves smash against the stilts of the house, and the spray manages to get him across his pants, water soaking into his socks. Jack remains there, frozen, a harrowing cacophony of whispers against the shell of his ear. 

_C̱̟̫̗̦̺͟o̶̤̗͇͈̮͔m͓͓e̦̦ ̱͔̮̗̫͔į̝̭̰̘̞̬n̻͇͈̥ ͚͙̯͎̥̪̗c͖͓͙̟̫̮o̤͖͓̗͉m͇̙̜̟̙e̖̭̣ ̭̖i̙̼̗̰n̪̞͢ ̼̠̭̝̣̗͘c̣̖͇͠o̬̭m̮̜͖̙̼͚ḛ̴͔̙̜͖ ̗͍i̠̲̝͓̼̼͠ͅn̰̙̘̤ ̧͓̗̥͎c͙̞͍̭̤o̢̜̼̼̗͈̥̫m͔̣͍͖̹̙͚e͍ ͔͍̯̦͜i̥̤̣n͏͕͇̯͎̭ ͏̼͍c̳̼͖̥oṃe̸͚̟͇̠ ̩̜͕ḭ̸͎̲̪̮n͏̝͕̫͔̺_  
̩̱͎̼͠  
͎͕̮͚̼͜M̨y̬̺̖̞̗ ̤̖͇̱̘͚͍͟l̟͈̗̮̣̠̗i͉̩̫t͈̼͟ţ̦̭͚̠̥̭̳ļ̪̻̺͖͈e̙̫̗͇ ͇̘̩͟l͍̺̤̥͉̞͕a̻͚͉̗̘̭ͅm̮b.̲͍̫̙̱ 

After six beats of his heart, starlight glimmers, a bridge forming its way to the house. Jack glances up, wondering if the stars fell in order to make this bridge--but the wind doesn’t seem to like his delay. He feels the immediate pressure bubbling at his back, and Jack steps onto the bridge for the second time in his life, two times too many. 

He should turn back. 

The familiar decrepit house illuminates with the starlight, the door squeaking open. Jack feels his heart lodged in his throat, knowing that this is bad, that he shouldn’t be out here. He’s lucky to have survived at eighteen, he’s a madman to try again ten years later. But there’s an allure, here, and Jack’s never pretended to be anything but a goddamn fool.

What does he have to lose? 

_Come in_ , the wind murmurs against his neck, clearer, darker. _Come in, my sweet. Return to me._

Fuck. This is such a bad idea. Every ounce of common sense he has is screaming, begging for him to turn around, to return to the safety of the house. He wants to curl beneath the sheets of his bed and tune out the wailing wind, kept away from the wandering hands and sultry whispers. He wants to take the next train home, return to his dingy life of being a divorced man who works with newspapers, and count every fucking second until he dies from alcohol poisoning. 

But he’s stupid. So stupid. Taking a long, steady breath, Jack walks into the house, and the door closes gingerly behind him. 

There’s dust in the air, and Jack has a distinct feeling he’s not alone. He’s known for a while that he isn’t alone, but it’s more prominent in the house. The wind seems to touch him, press along the groove of his skin, and he realizes that this...isn’t unfamiliar. The wind knows this, too. 

Had he been in the house at eighteen? No, no. He had been pulled under the water by the current before reaching it. He can’t have stepped foot in the house. 

Starlight glimmers to life, tiny, firefly-like apparitions lighting up the house. Jack glances around at the structure, much nicer on the inside than on the outside. Books stacked messily on the table, windows tinted in a rose-colored glass, furniture strewn about. Life. Something-- _someone_ \--lives in this house. 

Has he been here before? 

Something screeches in the distance. Jack whips his head to the side, trying to locate the source of the noise, but then, a soft melody reverberates in the house. Nonsensical words jumble together, but it’s soothing, wrapping him in the security that he doesn’t have without Mally’s jacket. Familiarity. 

A record player?

Jack roams the house, fingers ghosting over every available surface. His eyes find the fireplace as it whooshes to life, casting the room in an orange glow. Jack approaches, and something glitters on the mantle, catching his eye, beckoning him, almost. 

His stomach twists into knots before he even reaches it, hand already outstretched. The object is cold to the touch, and Jack grips it tight, bringing it down to look at it in the light. 

Gran’s watch. 

No. No.

He’d it lost in the sea. It had been ripped from his wrist by the current. He’d never set foot in the house. There’s no way, there’s no way it could be here--

And then, his finger tapping on the glass, everything rushes back to him.

Jack’s knees buckle, collapsing onto the hardwood by the fire, letting out a sharp exhale as he wheezes out, “ _Dark_.” 

“And here you are.”

The voice rumbles in the room, complementing the warble of the record player in the distance. Jack can’t bear to look over his shoulder, holding the timepiece in his fingers, as though it anchors him to this reality, as though letting go of it will cause him to lose himself completely. 

Dark’s presence looms over him, and Jack notes with a peculiar thought that he casts no shadow. He gazes up into the fire, the brightness burning into him, and he feels those red eyes watching him, waiting, expecting.

“It has been...much too long, little lamb,” Dark drolls on, honeysuckle wrapped in cyanide. “Do you remember?” 

Jack swallows the lump forming in his throat. The fire reflects in the glass of the watch, and he’s stricken with the urge to toss it in, as though burning it will solve this problem, as if burning it will free him from--whatever this is.

“I thought you were a dream,” he admits, the words sticky on his tongue. “Oh, god.” 

A soft, low laugh. “There is no god here, my sweet. Just me.” 

_If you look a tiger in the eye_ , he remembers, he remembers the story Mally had always told him, _he’s less likely to kill you. So when you’re scared, Seán, look it in the eye._

What terrible advice this has come to be, for Dark is no tiger, but a wolf, hungry and vicious and _wanting_. 

Gripping the timepiece tight, Jack musters all of the strength that he can to rise to his feet on shaky, uncertain legs. He doesn’t let go of it as he turns around and faces him, raising his chin, trying to pretend for a single moment that he is more confident than he feels. 

And there he is. Dark’s not changed much in the last ten years since he’s seen him. He’s as neatly pressed as ever, not a crease or fold out of place, shoulders straightened. His red eyes stand out against the background of his greyish skin, a mouth of sharp, finely pointed teeth that are on the cusp of human, but not quite. 

“Did you miss me?” Dark asks, like it’s not really a question. He tilts his head, eyes skirting him up and down, lips curled slightly. “I missed you...very much.” 

Jack finds himself both wanting Dark to remain as far away as possible, and to move closer. He flexes his fingers around the watch, swearing that every part of him is falling asleep, like this yet again some sort of dream. 

“So quiet,” Dark acknowledges, raising a brow. “I remember you being...a tad more mouthy. I remember thinking of all the ways I could use that voice of yours.” 

Fuck. That should not burn in his cheeks the way that it does. He scowls, and Dark must notice this.

“Something’s happened,” he rumbles, and for the first time, the atmosphere in the room shifts, turning cold and sour. Jack shivers at it. “Yes, something has hurt you. But what?” 

It’s almost as though he’s not talking to him. Jack breaks eye contact, and Dark does not like that. A snap resonates in the room again, startling him, but what frightens him more is the fire hisses out, leaving the room only partially illuminated. Dark stalks towards him, a predator on the hunt, and Jack’s heart leaps into his throat when he grabs him by the chin and tilts his head up to meet his gaze again.

He says nothing for a long moment, but holds his gaze, curious, searching. Jack feels exposed, then, and wants to pull away, but he knows better, somehow. He knows better than to pull away. 

“You’ve been hurt, little lamb,” Dark whispers, like Jack doesn’t know that. It stings, coming from his lips. “There’s a vacancy in you. A longing. A need.” 

Dark pulls his hand away, but not for long. He smoothes his hand over cheek, brushing the mop of brown hair away from his face. He’s so close that Jack can feel him, can feel the pseudo-warmth mixed with that familiar bitterness. 

“And I can provide,” Dark murmurs, and his teeth glimmer. It’s a promise, or a threat, and Jack isn’t sure which excites-- _frightens_ \--him more. “I can give you...whatever it is that you desire. Would you like that, Jack?” 

The _k_ of his name pops, drawled out until the last second. Jack recoils at this, because never has Dark used his name. He’s known that Dark knows it, knows that he’s been holding onto it, but he’s never heard him say it aloud. If anything, the devil seems amused by this. “Problem, my sweet?” 

“You’ve…” Jack curses his lungs, running out of air when he needs it the most. “You’ve never called me by my name before.”

“How remiss of me,” Dark laments, not at all sorry. His eyes narrow, regarding him with a gaze that can only be described as...seductive. “But that’s not your name, is it? No. Would you prefer it if I addressed you properly, _Seán_?” 

Fuck. _Fuck_. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Dark mimics, gripping his chin again. He’s not gotten any taller since their last meeting, but he looms, and his presence is much more intimidating this close. “Don’t what? Don’t call you by your name?”

“No,” Jack confirms, forcing the words across his tongue. “Don’t...do that. I don’t...like it.”

Dark lets out a hum, tracing the outline of his jaw with his finger. With a surge of energy in the lapse, Jack braces his hands against the material of Dark’s suit, soft and clean. He prepares to push him back by the shoulders, but strong hands wrap around his wrists, preventing any further action.

“I think you do,” he says, black nails digging into his skin. Not painful, but a warning. “I think you like the way the way I say your name. I think that it feels good. I think it feels good right…” 

He leans forward, puffing a gentle breath over the shell of his ear. Jack shivers, moving to pull away, but Dark holds him firm. “Here.”

“But if you’d rather,” he goes on, and smirks as Jack’s hands scrunch the fabric of his suit. “If you’d rather me not say _your_ name, I will settle for you screaming mine.” 

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. A hot sensation coils at the base of his stomach, and despite the way his body reacts, Jack tries to remain cool and collected, turning his face away. “Yeah? What makes you think...I’m interested?”

Dark presses forward, pushing him back against the stone fireplace. He smells of cinnamon and whiskey, burnt firewood. He seems to take his time pouring over the false bravado in his expression, memorizes the frailness of his wrists. Jack’s always been rather small--he can hold his own in a fight, but Dark--Dark can do anything, and no amount of ability would be able to stop him. 

“You came back,” the words fall short, breathy. His lips ghost over the column of his neck, not quite touching, but the gesture alone is enough to make him squirm. “You haven’t said no.” 

“Would it matter?” Jack challenges. “Would saying no matter?”

Finally-- _finally_ \--he presses a short, chaste kiss to the hollow of his throat, then another at the skin just below his ear. Jack thinks of how easy it would be for those teeth to sink into him, out of malice or desire, and Jack finds both options a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“How it pains me to know that you think I would do any of this,” Dark breathes, “against your will.”

“But I’m not the first to crawl into your den,” Jack tilts his head back, and Dark’s so close that if he just leaned forward a fraction, they could kiss. Dark knows this too, but hold his position. “And I’d bet my life I won’t be the last.”

“A bet you would lose,” his lips curl, half a smirk, half a snarl. “Do you think I pick anyone, anything that’s foolish enough to wander into my home?”

Gran’s watch still burns in his hand, what seems to be the only thing between him and Dark, the only thing that stands between consciousness and whatever Dark wants to do to him. He won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“So many humans have come and gone,” Dark growls out, and his grip tightens, nails digging into his skin. Jack watches the red flicker in his eyes, black overtaking it for a moment before glistening back. “So many _weak_ and _pathetic_ souls, desiring something they cannot have, they cannot _comprehend_. Foolish _children_ with invasive habits--challenging one another to fight the _monster_ on the water’s edge. No more. Never again.” 

Jack holds his breath as Dark lets out a sigh, before the tension in his shoulders loosens. He angles his head in just the right way, and if Jack leaned up, they could…

The hold on his wrists loosens, and falls. Dark’s hands come to rest on his hips, gentle, smoothing circles around the waistline of his pants. Jack’s knuckles are white from holding Gran’s watch so hard, still braced against Dark’s shoulders.

“You named me,” his gorgeous voice reminds, a threat on its own. His breathing is heavy and hungry and _dark_ , as he rumbles out, “You. Beautiful, foolish, naive, _exquisite_ you. The others were frightened. The others deserted. I didn’t want them. But you...my little lamb, my starlight, my _dearest_ Seán…”

His fingers press against his hips, anchoring him to the spot, so hard Jack knows he’ll have bruises. Dark says his name like it’s a gift, a treasure unparalleled, and he cherishes it. 

“Ask me to kiss you,” Dark commands, nosing at the soft skin of his neck. His breath tickles the sensitivity of it. “Ask me to place my lips where few others have gotten the privilege. Ask me mark you. To claim you. Ask me to fuck you raw, like you need, like you _deserve_. Ask me to make you mine.” 

That voice shouldn’t be doing things to him. Jack can feel a spark beneath his fingers, trailing down to his toes. His heart thumps in his chest wildly, scared and excited, and again, the looming thought remains: _you can say no._

He doesn’t want to. 

He opens his mouth to speak, air lacking in his throat. The watch slips from his fingers and clammers to the floor with a clutter, deafening in the quiet room. Dark waits, expectant, longing, not tearing his gaze away from him for a single moment, and the intensity of that gaze ignites something within him. He’s never had _anyone_ look at him like this, never had anyone look at him with a pure, unbridled wanting, and fuck, maybe he does deserve someone who will give a shit about him. 

_Liar._

_Manipulator._

_**Monster.** _

“Kiss me,” Jack breathes out, like a plea. “Please, Dark, kiss me. Kiss me.” 

Dark’s answering smile is vicious, as he leans down and bridges the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, and thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every comment and kudo (and I'm working super hard to make sure I reply to EVERYONE so I can show you how much it means to me). 
> 
> Feel free to visit me over at [tumblr](http://voidskelly.tumblr.com/) and if you like what I do, consider [buying me a coffee.](https://ko-fi.com/A234MZ4)

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will be a bit more...intense (the rating is explicit for a reason :p). Here's hoping I'll pull it off ♡
> 
> Thanks for reading and please feel free to chat with me at voidskelly.tumblr.com!


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